The Empty Chair
by SuperWhoLockin1000
Summary: This story takes place after John and Mary get married; however, unlike the show, Sherlock's drug problem and feelings get in the way a little too much. There is explicit drug use as well as talk of suicide. This may be a trigger for some people, so please don't read if it will cause harm.


Two weeks. It had been two weeks since John left. It had been two weeks since he had entered the blissfully aloof life that is marriage. It had been two weeks since John had left Sherlock's life and left him in this empty, large and wholly miserable flat. He was alone. Sherlock sat at the kitchen tab le working on some experiment trying to distract his mind from the blaring fact that the seat across from his own was empty and always would be. He stood up abruptly, hitting his knees against the wood, sending glass shattering onto the ground. "Dammit" he cursed, stepping over his splattered chemicals and test tubes. He paused for a moment standing in the middle of the room. He ran his fingers through his loose curls and dragged them across his face. He looked once more at the empty chair, and his thoughts started racing again. He slammed himself down into his chair, clasping his heads in his hands. "God," he thought, "what is happening to me?" "Don't get involved Sherlock." His brother's words echoed throughout his head. "I'm not involved" he whispered to himself. "Caring isn't an advantage" his brother mocked. He could feel the emotions bubbling up inside him. These strange feelings he had blocked himself from were all showering down on him now. "I'm not involved" he sc reamed, jumping up throwing the empty chair onto its side. He stood there huffing, and heard Ms. Hudson's dainty footsteps hurrying up the stairs. "Oh Sherlock," she cooed, "what is happening?" "Not now Ms. Hudson" he growled. "Sherlock, is this about John? I know how close you were to him and I know how much you must mis…" "Ms. Hudson," Sherlock huffed trying to keep his voice the smooth steady baritone it was, "I would greatly appreciate it if you took your opinions elsewhere as they are not needed here." "Sher.." "Please leave!" he grated through his teeth. "Oh Sherlock" she mumbled on her way down the stairs. He sighed, shoulders heaving over. What was happening to him? He was falling apart at the seams. The great Sherlock Holmes, the man who prided himself on being superior to everyone else was now falling, crashing to the ground because of the simplest of problems, human error. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, and with one swooshing movement, grabbed his coat and scarf and ran down the stairs. "Going out?" he heard Ms. Hudson call out. "Nope" he shouted back slamming the door.

The smell hit his impeccable senses first, two blocks away. Memories flooded through his mind palace. It had been a little over four years since he'd been here, the scum of London. He could feel the old itch starting at the nook of his arm. He stopped for a moment, thinking how disappointed John would be if he knew. Then he remembered the empty chair and John wasn't coming back. He didn't care about Sherlock. He walked faster. The door was slightly unhinged but fit the rest of the ramshackled house. Sherlock knocked and a pair of eyes met him at the slightly ajar door. "What'ya want?" "Isn't it obvious" Sherlock sighed boringly. "You don't look like the kind've folk that usually come round here, so get lost or I'll cut you" he said as the light reflected off a silver knife. "Oh please," Sherlock said rolling his eyes,"I could say you're not the "typical folk". In fact, you grew up in a wealthy, loving family, went to a top university and graduated. Then you set to the streets to earn a little extra money as you go through grad school on an unpaid internship. So, shut up and give me my fix" he growled pushing past the shocked young man. "What's your name anyhow" the man questioned. Sherlock glanced back, "Shezza" he stated simply and proceeded up the stairs. He sat down on one of the filthy mattresses and tied his scarf around his rolled up sleeve. He flipped the lighter under the spoon and soon felt the prick as he placed the needle into his arm. "Ahh" he sighed in relief as he felt the warmth spread throughout his body. He flew so high, way past the clouds and felt all the emotions drain way. Eventually, he drifted off pleasantly, like floating on a cloud. He awoke the next morning with nausea that always came with the crash. Then, everything slowly started flooding back into his mind and without thinking, he plunged the needle back in his arm, returning to bliss. Sherlock remained in the house for about a week, but finally decided to return home, stash in his pocket.

"Dammit" he thought as he saw the straightened knocker, Mycroft. Reluctantly, he emerged into the empty flat and found his brother sitting on the steps. "Ah Sherlock, I see the call of old habits couldn't be ignored." "Oh shut up Mycroft, I'm not in the mood" he snarled. "Why Sherlock, you've been clean for years, so why now?" Mycroft asked in his usual professionally monotone voice. "Shut up" he replied trying to remain calm but his voice slightly betrayed him. "So Sherlock, it's obvious you've been out for days. You smell like the bottom of a dumpster, you're hair is greasy and matted to your unkempt, withered looking face. So brother dear, why return now, unless.." he ended reaching into Sherlock's coat pocket, retrieving the small bag of brownish powder. "Ah yes, here we are again." Sherlock snapped his arm up clenching Mycroft's wrist. "Brother dear" he started, but then he felt everything bubbling it's way to the surface. "Not here" he thought, "Not in front of Mycroft." He couldn't help it, tears began to well up in his eyes and slowly fall down his cheeks. Mycroft looked at his baby brother as he crumbled in front of him. He felt a pang in his heart but didn't know what to do. He wanted to help, to comfort Sherlock, but couldn't get himself to do it. So, he carefully walked past his broken brother and replied dismissively, "Unwise brother mine" he concluded stepping out the door, bag in hand, leaving his damaged brother inside. Sherlock stood there for a moment trying to regain his composure. It was obvious his brother had no care for him, but also that he wasn't as cunning as he would like to believe. Sherlock reached to the inside of his jacket and pulled out the second bag he managed to get and smirked to himself slowly walking upstairs.

"Sherlock," John called, "Mycroft called, he sounded pretty concerned, said I should come check…" his sentence ended and his stomach dropped as he looked upon his best friend slumped over in his chair, needle still in his arm. John rushed over and started smacking Sherlock's face. "Sherlock! Sherlock come on wake up! Don't you do this to me again." His friend remained unconscious. "Bloody hell" he thought as he reached to his phone dialing 999.

Sherlock awoke to the artificial lights of the hospital room. He sighed, rolling over to see his friend staring at him with blood shot eyes. He sighed again. Anger was growing in John, "Why"  
he asked in his calmest voice which still rose highly at the end. Sherlock remained silent. "Why in bloody hell would you do this!" he asked once more, the anger clearly seeping through his voice. "Oh do relax John, it was merely an experiment." John laughed sarcastically, "An experiment, eh? An experiment that involved shooting yourself up with God knows what repeatedly leaving you looking as if you were left in the streets to die." Sherlock looked away, shame shadowing his face.  
"Yeah, didn't think I'd notice," John continued, voice rising with every word, "Didn't think I'd notice the track marks stretching across your skin." "Please John," Sherlock said still looking away aw tears began to well up, "leave me." "You're unbelievable you know that" he replied grimly before leaving the room. Sherlock sighed, choking on his sobs that wouldn't stop. This disappointment seeped through his veins, stabbing his heart. Why, why was this happening? He sighed one final time before falling back asleep.

When he awoke, he saw John talking to Mary. John was obviously distressed and Mary reached around holding him against her tightly. Sherlock moaned, shutting his eyes tightly. John and Mary took that mistakenly as Sherlock waking up in pain. "Sherlock," John asked cautiously, "are you all right?" "Fine" Sherlock grumbled. But, it was a lie, he was most certainly not fine. His John. His John, holding hands with his wife. His John wrapping his arms around her, offering comfort and love. His John, lost to him forever. "Sherlock," John said softly, placing his hand over Sherlock's. Warmth spread throughout Sherlock's body as his hand felt the rough but comforting heat of John's hand against his own. Only then did he feel the tears streaming down his face. "Forgive me John, please" his baritone voice breaking. "Of course Sherlock, of course I forgive you. Always, I love and care about you." Sherlock only cried more knowing the words were only platonic. "Sherlock, I promise, we will help you. I'll stay with you until you get better." "That would be forever" Sherlock thought. He would never get better. The problem wasn't the drugs; they were merely an attempted solution. The problem was John was not his, and never would be.

Three days after, Sherlock was released. They, John, Mary and Sherlock, returned to the flat that still had the chair turned over and the glass shattered among the floor. "Jesus, did you get in a fight?" John joked. "Something like that," Sherlock mumbled. "Well," John huffed, "better get this place cleaned up. Hey Mary, why don't you go get some food; I'm sure everything here is part of a toxic wasteland." "Sure" she replied pecking him on the cheek. Sherlock's stomach dropped as he watched the loving exchange between the happy newlyweds. "So, Sherlock" John said, turning to him. "Changing" Sherlock replied quickly before stomping off to his room. "Well, I guess that much hasn't changed" John thought rolling his eyes as Sherlock slammed the door. Sherlock stood there in the cold, gloomy room and wrapped his arms around himself. His mind flashed back to the beginning; the first day he met John. He fell for him instantly. He was different than anyone he'd known. He loved that about him. The, he began thinking how he left John for two years after jumping off that building. He left John, leaving him to grieve hopelessly. That was the mistake; the mistake that led to everything else. If he had just told John he wasn't dead maybe he would have never met Mary. Mary who came into John's life and comforted him because of Sherlock's stupidity. It was Mary who took John away. It was Mary who got to talk to John all day. It was Mary who got to spend every day with John, touching him, comforting him. It was Mary John loved now. With one swift movement, Sherlock reached into his drawer and pulled out the remaining drugs he had gotten from the house. He lit the flame under the spood and filled the needle to the brim and injected it into his arm. He heard John call out his name as he drifted off into a bubble of euphoria where he could be with John forever.


End file.
